


Fist Over Love

by itsfrantastic



Category: Glee, Spartacus - Fandom, Spartacus Series (TV)
Genre: Anti klaine, F/F, F/M, M/M, anti finchel, hi im trash and i ship varro/kurt lmao
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-01
Updated: 2019-08-13
Packaged: 2019-09-20 15:03:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17024856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsfrantastic/pseuds/itsfrantastic
Summary: After being brutally assaulted after attempting to stop a hate crime on the streets of New York, Kurt Hummel begins to take private self defense lessons at local combat club Fugitivus Combat. Owned and operated by a retired Australian Special Forces veteran named Varro, and managed by his former commander Spartacus, Fugitivus Combat Club ends up being a safe haven for a struggling Kurt. Along the way he finds a fist over love.





	1. Quinn

Quinn

She stood tall in her cork wedges. The hem of her Anthropologie dress flared in the wind. Quinn Fabray knew this was the address that she found from google. As she peered in through the glass windows and saw the powerful men working the different stations on the black soft mat she felt a renewed sense of purpose. She had not felt this helpless since giving up her beautiful baby, and before that she had made sure she never felt this way again, not since she was Lucy. But Quinn was nothing if not headstrong, and she willed her first foot to take a step forward. A manicured hand came to rest against the glass door, behind her the busy traffic of Chinatown kept its steady flow. Burt Hummel had given her this special task because she was the only one he could trust. Rachel had wept, and wept, and wept, and Finn was always so useless no one could really be sure if they could trust him.

Quinn wasn’t even sure if Rachel was genuine in her feelings for Kurt, or if the theatrics were for attention. Santana would have been a great choice for Burt, but Quinn liked to think her hard-earned reputation gave her that extra edge. She felt honored that Burt had asked her to look after Kurt and help find a perfect place to further his recovery and protection.

She spent a few hours reading Yelp reviews online before deciding on a large enough combat club with a cheap enough price called Fugitivus Combat. It was run by a man named Varro, who looked decent from his picture on the website. She had printed out a coupon and rode the subway for longer than she cared to just to get there.

A few steps brought her inside. From the outside the large ring and colorful mats that adorned a section of the outermost wall was obscured, but now that she was finally inside the establishment she could see them. The smell of sweat and man immediately filled her nostrils and she wrinkled her nose.

“Sorry, sweetness, but ladies self-defense is every first Tuesday of the Month. You won’t find girly fighting here.”

A brusque voice from a large man filled her ears and Quinn immediately turned her head towards the sound. He turned away and began rifling through the paperwork that sat atop the front desk. His unique accent had her raising her eyebrows but his rude nature had her Head Cheerio coming out.

“That’s not condescending at all,” she began in her iciest tone. “Didn’t come here for me, but I’m sure your owner would love to know that you’ve turned away a potential customer. That’s fine with me, you insignificant sack of meat.” Quinn spun on her heel and began to walk away ignoring the indignant squawk of the man in front of her. She felt a calloused hand grab a hold of her. It slid sparks up her arm. She looked down at the small strip of skin in between her bracelet and her cardigan and watched as rough fingers gently caressed the side of her wrist.

 “I’m terribly sorry for Crixus, miss,” the man said.

Quinn looked up at his towering figure. He was blond, and beautiful, and large, and his lilting accent washed over her in waves. She snatched her arm back and blew her bangs out of her face.

“My name is _Spartacus_ , and I’m the manager. Perhaps there are some things I may help you with?”

Quinn had to imagine what parents would bestow their child with such a terrible fate. Spartacus? The name itself had her wanting to laugh from sheer absurdity.

“Yes, well, I’m here to inquire about this,” she said, thrusting the printed flyer into his open hands.

“For yourself?”

“No, I have a friend who was recently attacked. Hate crime. He’s gay, and apparently people still think they can just hurt other people,” Quinn said. She nodded stiffly, by this point they had seemed to attract a few staring faces. One large man held a punching bag in place for a smaller man, who’s long hair was flowing with every spin kick he managed to land. She found herself slightly distracted.

 When Quinn’s mother had sent Frannie Fabray off to Christian college in Texas, she bought Frannie a bottle of pepper spray. Pink and decorated in small polka dots, it sat in the bottom of Frannie’s purse. When she came home for vacation when Quinn was in her Junior year Frannie left it on her little sister's bedside table. Judy Fabray was a cautious woman and a stalwart believer in pacifism. Violence was unattractive and unseemly for a young woman. When Frannie started dating a Crossfit trainer who taught her self defense Judy was quite angry at her eldest daughter. Quinn was never as close to her sister as she wanted to be and through the years desperately tried to unlearn the negative conditioning her upbringing gave her—but even now, in the middle of this training facility, she felt uncomfortable.

She could see the curvature of their spines as they bent, the way the muscles in their legs worked with every strong turn and duck and roll. The way the sweat beads dripped down carved marble abs and pooled by bare feet on the floor of the plastic mat had her momentarily distracted. Her attention was quickly pulled away from a strong blonde woman grappling on the ground in the corner with a man twice her size by the sound of the manager’s voice.

“Darling, people have been hurting other people since time immemorial. But yes, I can work with this. How injured is injured?”

“Is there an office? Or a quiet place we may speak?” she asked firmly. If Quinn knew anything, it was how to negotiate. Her beauty and her femininity had always been her greatest weapon and her strongest ally. It had served her well as a young girl in Ohio—and in New Haven, where she had to fight for her place amongst her peers with her: grades; wit; and stunning smile? Well, she was Head Cheerio for a reason.

***

“How’d it go, Quinn?” Carole Hudson asked as Quinn Fabray sat her Michael Kors purse down by the foot of Kurt’s hospital bed.

Quinn dared a glance towards her friend. He looked small amongst the endless stack of pillows and blankets Rachel brought in. His machines beeped in a steady pattern that sent chills up Quinn’s spine. She hated hospitals and desperately wanted out. She perched on the edge of Kurt’s bed and grabbed a small pillow to play with.

“I think it went well!” Quinn said. “I talked to the manager into including a student discount, so it’ll be about 675$ a month for the first three months, and then it goes down to $500. But that includes private lessons three times a week as well as group lessons once a month if he wants them.”

Carole took a sharp breath in. “I-I, I could take on a few more shifts at the hospital,” The tired woman said as she looked to her husband.

Burt stood in the corner, one weary hand holding his worn baseball cap against his chest. “No, don’t. I’ll ask his Aunt. I’ve never asked his mother’s side of the family for anything, but he needs this. We all need this.” He turned towards Quinn. “Get the paperwork done and I’ll cut a check.”

Quinn nodded thoughtfully before she spoke, “I mean, if it helps, they all seem competent. Everyone there is certified and knows what they’re doing.”

She had spent an hour in Spartacus’ office. Spartacus—whose last name was something long and complicated—had graciously gone over all of their group and solo classes, prices, and monthly events. The entire time Quinn sat across from him at his desk she couldn’t help herself from staring at the tattoos that adorned his left arm, the rough skin of obvious scars, or the crooked shape of his once-broken nose. Quinn had asked about his training (SASR) and how long he had been managing the establishment. When she was satisfied and had collected all the pamphlets he walked her to the door and shook her hand.

“We never thought we’d have to do something like this, not even when that toolbox Karofsky was laying into him, you know?” Burt said to the women in the room. “Kurt never would agree to anything involving violence! When he was a boy, me and his Uncle Dan—my little brother—tried to teach him how to punch in the backyard because we knew things like this would happen, but he didn’t want it,” Burt said as he looked away.

Carole moved to comfort her husband. Quinn felt out of place amongst them. This was a family who cared about each other and ached when the others were hurting. A part of her desperately wished she had that. She offered a small smile. “I know this is scary, Mr. Hummel.”

“Call me Burt,” Mr. Hummel said. 

“I know this is scary, Mr. Burt, but Kurt’s going to be okay, right? I have this feeling, that with God and us, everything will be okay,” Quinn said rapidly wiping away a few small tears.

"Quinn's right Burt. He really is going to be alright." Carole said as she moved to rub his arm. 

Burt nodded before settling down into a plastic chair. He shook his arms out before sighing deeply. 

"Okay, kiddo. Tell me more about this gym," he said before he placed his hands in his lap. 

 


	2. Varro

 

Varro

 

In some way, Varro had always known that Aurelia would leave him. They had married young—Aurelia, pregnant; Varro, itching to make a name for himself and desperate for a home more reflective of the sitcoms that babysat him. Fear absolutely crawled up and down Varro’s spine. It was a tingling sensation that nestled itself in the smallest point of his chest and spread outwards. It came out to play anytime Varro thought about being a father. 

So, they married. Varro had nothing to give her. No way of proving to her already disapproving family that he hadn’t stolen their prized flower and knocked her up before she turned 21. 

Aurelia’s dad thought Varro a snake. A beggar of a poor boy who had somehow charmed the panties off his baby girl, Aurelia’s father despised Varro. In some ways, he was right. Varro had grown up in and out of homes, he slept on couches, in guestrooms, and when he was most desperate, under bridges and benches. 

Varro’s parents (like Aurelia’s) had divorced early. Unlike Aurelia, his father had left. He left behind a grieving mother who spent her time in pubs instead of with young Varro. 

Faced with a pregnant girlfriend who was only one semester into a college and an army recruiter breathing down his back, Varro made an easy decision. 

Bootcamp was little more than concrete walls of grey, constant yelling, and the never-ending trail of sweat. It was hot underneath the Australian sun and Varro sometimes thought he would die. Gradually it became easy. He made friends—Spartacus, a New Zealander and Agron, the German-born Aussie raised college drop out—who Varro was fortunate enough to be placed with. 

When boot camp was over, Varro found his first assignment pretty easy. He didn’t get stationed anywhere exciting, and the steady money was enough to keep Aurelia and her father happy. He went months without seeing her and their beautiful son, but he was proud to be serving his country and to be supporting his family in an honest way. 

After work he and the boys would grab a pint, play darts or spar. Military martial arts wasn’t exactly the real thing but it was an easy gateway for Varro and his friends to find a combat gym after shifts. His life was a simple existence and he soon settled into a routine. 

His orders came the same day he caught Aurelia cheating but it was fine because he loved her. And he had orders. What could he do? We’ll work on this. When I come back . You and me. You and me and our son. We’ll get a small house with a garden. A box of white to border our perfect lives. Your silky hair against your shoulders. His freckles—my freckles—I can’t wait to show you. To show everyone just how good we will be. 

He left for Japan and came back 8 months later, skin a warm golden shade, eyes the brightest of blues, he shed buckets of tears when he held them both. And Varro was quieter and more self-assured. 

He thought his love would have been enough, but he could never quite figure out exactly what she wanted. 

He bought her that house. The one he often dreamed about. The cozy little cottage by the sea with a white picket fence, a garden, and their last name on the front door. 

But Aurelia said it wasn’t big enough, said it wasn’t what she wanted. Said she felt trapped by her life. And then Varro got orders again. This time it was active combat. This time he was going with his boys to war. 

Dust, bullets and the hot Afghanistanian sun—sun, sun, sun, when would he ever escape the inescapable heat that followed him?—sometimes they’d play cards in a tent in the middle of nowhere, sometimes they’d laugh and reminisce. Americans, Brits, local militias, it seemed like he was constantly surrounded by people, by men, by the smell of anxiety and sweat, dripping down his body and pooling in the crack of his abs until he couldn’t take it. Sometimes he screamed in his mind. It was easier to go there, to think about Aurelia and Janus running around the front yard then it was to think about the present, the bullets and the blood, the pure exhaustion, the lack of real fucking food. 

I’d kill for a coffee. I don’t have to kill for a coffee, I’m killing for free. No, not for free. I’ve sold my soul. 

***

Varro came home. Aurelia opened the front door. She was pregnant. Varro was broken. 

The argument that ensued lasted a month, and during that time he slept in Agron’s barrack bedroom. Regardless of the situation, his wife was expecting another child. He decided it would be his. Some part of Varro always thought Aurelia was angry at him for that choice. That maybe she wanted him to be so cross he’d leave her. Leave Janus and this baby she was carrying now, leave them all so she could go to her lover and start fresh. But he didn’t, and he always forced himself to chase those thoughts with whiskey or a swift kick to someone’s midsection. 

Years of therapy taught Varro that he was more in love with the idea of Aurelia. Varro wanted to recreate the family he never had and desperately sought to provide Janus with stability but it always seemed like  Aurelia wanted wealth, material things and the ability to have fun whenever she saw fit. 

Still, there was no bone in his body that blamed her, at least, not at the time. Later when he had been hardened by too many kill shots and had moved continents to be away from his misery did he then place blame at her feet. 

  
***

The day he left her was one of the worst days of his life. Varro was tired. At 28, he was absolutely miserable. Renewing your contracts in your late twenties was considered old for the military unless one was planning on making it a career for the long haul, many enlisted did their four years and hopped out—but not Varro. No, he knew this was the only way to provide for his family (one which had grown by another child, one he doubted he was the father of) and enjoyed the satisfaction but after special forces training and many select missions he knew he was close to being done. 

He spent weeks arguing with himself about it. Talking to Agron, Spartacus, and many of their other friends made him think that it was the best option for him to take. He packed a bag when she was at her pilates class and left a long note underneath Janus’ pillow. He’d have his lawyers send the divorce papers when he was far away.  He refused to hear her nonchalant attitude, her laissez-faire smug smirks, or even see her eyes light up with victory. But not seeing her and saying goodbye hurt the most because he still loved her dearly. 

 

He left for the opposite coast of Australia and laid low for a few months until the divorce was in full swing before leaving for America. 

 

***

“Arvo, boys! Tonight’s classes are straight chockers, so I need everyone on best behaviors!” Varro said as he clicked a pen in his right hand. It was the weekly team meeting for Fugitivus Combat, the martial arts club he started in LA the year he moved to the United States. He opened up another location in Texas and finally one in New York a few years after. It had been a long time since he left Australia with his entire life in a duffle bag. 

Over the years his brothers-in-arms had joined him at various locations as he always had a job opportunity available and paid them as well as he could. It was the best way for a lot of them (many who didn’t want to go the way of the private sector) to stay involved and make a living. Varro loved being able to provide and this way he was sure his clubs had the best quality instructors and content. 

“Chockers? Someone’s feeling real Aussie tonight,” Agron joked. 

Varro rolled his eyes. 

“Now, we’ve got juniors at seven! Nasir, you know your lesson plans. It should go really smooth, but if you need extra help come get me and I can step in,” Varro said loudly. 

Agron ran his hands through his partner's hair as Nasir smiled at his boss. 

“Saxa! I want you and Naevia to shuffle your plans around for tonight’s self-defense. Let’s do tumbles and hammer strikes and if time permits some elbow work,” Varro looked down at his clipboard. 

Naevia’s eye roll was audible as he heard Crixus grumble. 

“The last thing I have before I open up the floor is we’ve got private sessions for two separate companies next week. I want all of us to do a deep clean of our sections and mats between now and then. Thanks, guys. Floor’s yours.” 

 

Varro watched as Crixus took his spot in front of the group before addressing a few things on his list. He turned around to see Spartacus staring at him from the doorway. 

“You’re tense,” came out of Spartacus’ mouth before Varro had a chance to say anything. 

“‘Gee, thanks. Sparty, fuck off,” Varro said before he offered a small smile to his oldest friend. 

“Did you go out with that hot little redhead that Agron set you up with?” Spartacus asked as he followed Varro into his office. 

“Do I look like I went out with some tart our airheaded best friend found for me? On the internet no less?” Varro said as he downed the rest of his now-cold coffee. 

“It’s not polite to call them tarts.” 

“Sparty, fuck off.” 

“Darling, why didn’t you go out on a date?” Spartacus asked his friend as he took a seat across from his desk. 

“Because I didn’t want to go out with someone from the internet. Besides, I can find my own dates.” Varro replied. 

“I’ll believe that when I actually see you going on one,” Spartacus said. 

Varro rolled his eyes. 

“Do you have any actual work-related information or are you going to hassle me for my dating life?” 

“We need to talk about a new private session I signed up the other day.” 

“Why?” Varro asked. He sat back in his chair and gave his friend a hard look. 

“Girlfriend of the guy came in and told me it was a hate crime. Little minx of a thing, firecracker blonde,” Spartacus said. He reached towards his stack of papers before handing Varro a file folder.” 

“Hate crime? Racism?” 

“No. Homophobia.” 

Varro clenched his jaw. 

“Bloody hell,” he said. “Delicate thing? Or?” 

“I’d say by the pictures she sent me. Haven’t met the fellow. Sheila says he’s still in the hospital.” Spartacus stood up. “Look over the file and tell me what you think. I can’t give this to Crixus or Agron and I can’t do it myself because I’m booked.” Spartacus chuckled. “I am teaching yummy mummies until my bones rot.” 

He left the room leaving Varro to his thoughts and his day-old coffee. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> edited and revamped the first chapter. 
> 
> instagram: mysticforceblue


End file.
